The Book of Poetry, tr. by James Legge, , at sacred-texts.com
2Where’er their arch the heavens expand,
The king can claim the land below.
Within the seabounds of the land,
All at his summons come or go.
His ministers unfairly act;
They praise me, but with toils distract. p. 274
3Four ceaseless steeds my care engage;
The king's affairs no rest allow.
They say I bear no trace of age,
While few, they think, such vigor show.
While my backbone remains unbent,
In work my life must still be spent.
4Some rest in careless ease, supine;
Some for the state themselves wear out.
On softest couches some recline;
Others, unhalting, march about.
5Some never hear a clamorous sound;
Others toil on ’midst rude alarms.
Some idle on their backs are found;
And some bear loads with head and arms.
6Some feast, and fearless seek new joys;
Some live in constant dread of blame.
Some the harsh critic's work employs;
Others their numerous duties claim.